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THE 


BLOOD IS THE MM 

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THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 

CHAPTER I 

Dr. Baajo, Known as a Visionary, by the Followers 
of Hippocrates, gives his views on 
the Nature of Blood 

R. BAAJO, upon whose strange com- 
plex personality rests the chief 
interest of this story, was born 
under the malign influence of an 
evil star, or, perhaps, more strictly 
speaking, under the malign influ- 
ence of some power lower than 
that of a star. At any rate, half 
his face was stained, in purple, and this cruel brand 
he must bear with him to the grave. His symmetri- 
cal form, his expressive eyes and mouth had, as yet, 
been scarcely seen. In the purple stain, which 
often burned as though scorched by fire, apparently, 
centered all his attractions, for upon it rested the 
unflinching gaze of refined and delicate women ; 
children questioned him respecting it, and even 
clergymen dropped the breeding of their cloth, 



4 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


during the brief period that it fell under their 
notice. Often, in malice, when exposed to the 
scrutiny of an insolent eye, he would turn the 
defective side of his face to the best possible 
advantage for the observer — he would even throw 
back his long hair with a surly toss^as if further to 
reveal himself. He came, at length, to almost hate 
the human race. Yet there was an exception; one 
friend he had to whom he showed all the sweetness 
as well as all the bitterness, of his nature. This 
friend was Hermilio. Circumstances having thrown 
them together during many months, a mutual 
attraction matured into profound and lasting 
friendship, and in the security of his own room, 
with Hermilio as companion, the Doctor could for- 
get, at times, his personal sufferings, caused by the 
cruelties of an unsympathetic world, and philoso. 
phise, coldly, upon its lack of charity. On other 
occasions — in moods of high satanic humor — he 
would berate mankind with unsparing tongue; 
none escaped him. He deemed his penetration 
could lay bear all human contrivances for covering 
human infirmities, mental or physical. He boasted 
that his classification was complete; that to establish 
a man’s place in the scale of existence, a glance at 
the color of his face, or at the outlines of his form, 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


5 


was to him of itself, sufficient; that woman, though 
hopelessly imbedded in conventional lies, weCs still 
to him an open book. 

The Doctor spent many hours, daily , in his labora- 
tory, deeply absorbed in work, yet, finding time to 
express his private opinions to Hermilio, who, being 
sure of a welcome, often sought him there. 

Circumstances mould character, and determine 
the line of its development. 

Deprived, by his physical blemish, of the privilege 
of mingling in society, on equal terms, he found 
solace in fields of study unknown to most men. He 
had become familiar with certain books treating of 
the undeveloped, occult force in man and nature; 
and also familiar with strange tales of astral or spirit 
vampires, prolonging their stay on earth, by feeding 
upon the blood of the living. 

One day, in an expansive mood, he said to Her- 
milio: “ After all the blood is everything.” 

“ Everything? ” — exclaimed Hermilio. 

“ Yes, everything. In it is to be found the cause 
of all that has been achieved by the human family.” 

“Is not that too broad an assertion? ” 

“Ho,” continued the Doctor, “religion, poetry, 
courage, cowardice, virtue, vice, health, disease, 
everything takes its tone, color and character from 
the blood.” 


6 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


“Not religion surely? ” 

“ More than anything else. Every man’s God — 
good or bad — is determined by the fire and flow of 
his blood.” 

“You alarm me! I believed religion to be inde- 
pendent of the senses, and that it had been evolved 
to satisfy man’s spiritual needs?” 

“ Nonsense — religion is a matter of food and 
digestion, and is as subject to change as are the 
other forces in the universe. It is the spiritual 
nature, or the things of the spirit, created by itself, 
that the blood delights to reveal. It is the key 
unlocking the door of the man invisible ; by its 
evanescent flashes, the soul and body part with their 
secrets. Watch the face of any man for an hour — 
there, his inmost being will tell you of itself — 
there, the sensual will proclaim its power. The 
desires of the incorporeal, and the corporeal, have 
their different insignia, so that he who knows may 
read. Few have schooled their blood — few brought 
it under the dominion of the will. Yes ! a person 
who exposes his face, reveals himself — he shows his 
colors.” 

“ To the initiated?” 

“ To me, or to any one who has studied this sub- 
ject. You, of course, know that each man has his 
own particular manner of making blood ? ” 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


7 


“ I had never thought of it, but it may he so.” 

“It is so. He, whose system makes blood easily, 
is lower in the scale of intelligence than he who 
makes it with difficulty ; quality here, as every- 
where, queens it over quantity. He who eats by 
instinct, has not improved on the habits of his 
progenitors of the lower world ; he assimilates, on 
the animal plane — his blood will be rank, and 
circulate rapidly. The man, who tastes , has looked 
upon the tree of knowledge — his blood moves at his 
will, he is gathering to himself experiences that will 
help to make him, in some far off eons, immortal. 
The visible effects of a reserved and parsimonious 
circulation, impelled by even ignoble desires, are, 
always, more perceptible than those of a swift, 
uncertain one, though urged by noble impulses.” 

“ Your views are peculiar.” 

“ Not at all — I even go further, and maintain that 
the masculine, and feminine principles, are repre- 
sented by the red and white corpuscles. The 
white corpuscles, heretofore, have not been under- 
stood ; they are known to be of finer structure than 
the red, and by virtue of this fineness, they have 
the power to pass through the walls of the capillary 
tissue, and at will, to wander to and fro, without 
doing harm. The red corpuscles, although derived 


8 THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 

from the white, are heavy, stubborn, and being void 
of curiosity, are incapable of migrating, or of taking 
flying trips into any worlds, not strictly their own, 
but in that own they are the cause of all its trouble. ” 

“ Good heavens ” — said Hermilio laughingly — 
“ the two sexes, then, are mingling indiscriminately 
— and no law to regulate them.” 

“ Oh, laugh as you please. I will go even another 
length, and say that under a higher civilization, 
marriages will be made, not upon any system now 
in vogue n but upon one that will insure to those 
governed by it, perfect peace for the future.” 

“ May I ask what that system will be? ” 

“ Certainly — by analysis of the blood of the con- 
tracting parties. By this means it could be ascer- 
tained whether happiness would be possible.” 

“ I fail, even yet, to see how.” 

“ Remember the blood is the life, that the white 
corpuscles stand for mental energy — that in every 
partnership the possessor of the greatest number 
of white corpuscles, must dominate. The one 
deficient in white corpuscles, must inevitably fall 
subordinate. Marriage should be a state where 
opposite poles hold, in equilibrium, the forces 
brought together by the desires of man. Eternal 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


9 


harmony can only be, when these things are better 
understood.’/ 

“ Then,” said Hermilio, “ you having mastered 
the subject, can tell, by a glance, whether two people 
should marry ? ” 

“ Yes — by their color. If they harmonize by 
strong contrast, or blend by closely related colors, 
rightly proportioned, there may be hope for the 
future. The individual, justly made — well held 
together by the true bond of opposite but inter- 
blending forces, and, therefore, perfectly balanced — 
meeting his like, could be content with her; but the 
ill-made, one-sided, must seek his counterpart. I 
can even point out people, who show by their color, 
that they were born of uncongenial parents. 

“ This is vastly interesting, but have we not 
wandered far away from common sense? ” 

“ Not at all,” continued the Doctor — “ the blood is 
the most mysterious and potential of God’s works. 
Intellectual development comes through the burning 
processes of the blood ; within each globule, red or 
white, slumbers a spark of fire ; igniting as it runs 

marking its course by red and white flames — it 

creates thought, good or bad, according to its degree 
of refinement. The incentive to the noblest deed, 
as well as to that of the basest, may be traced back 


10 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


to the blood. The source of reason’s cold abstrac- 
tions, as well as intuition’s subtleties, is found in the 
blood ; it even pushes its way to the creating of soul. 
I have wished you to know something of my feeling 
on the subject, that you, at least, might understand 
my views.” 

While to the sane mind of Hermilio these conjec- 
tures appeared chimerical, they, yet, charmed and 
betrayed him into the loss of many an hour, passed 
in idle talk and fruitless discussion. 


CHAPTER II 


\ 


Dr. Baa jo Yields to the Seductions of Opportunity 
and Saves the Life of Chrysoris, 
by Transfusion 

ELEGRAPPIA opened the window. 
In the first beams of the morning, 
the lamp’s yellow flame looked 
coarse and material ; she felt this, 
and putting it out turned again to 
the East, whose first aerial blush was merging 
into the glow of coming day. Finding no inspi - 
ration there, she went softly back to the couch, 
where, through the long night, had lain her son, 
Chrysoris. “He is dying” — she thought— “ they 
have said it — and I see it.” 

She drew away to the farthest corner of the room, 
and sitting down, bowed herself over, and clasped 
her knees in dumb sorrow. 

Hermilio moved softly about the room, pacing to 
and fro between the corner where his mother 
crouched, and the open space where his brother lay. 

The curtains parted, and Pamphilia, again, bent 
over the extended form. Its tranquil fixedness of 

ii 



12 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


seeming eternal repose, answered the quick glance 
of her questioning eyes. Kneeling, she clasped 
within her own the cold and unresponsive hand of 
her husband. She touched his brow whereon death’s 
dew stood in crystal drops. She placed her cheek 
to his lips, from whence a wave*, of air— a vibration 
so faint it might have been the ghost of a spirit’s 
breath — came and thrilled her. She laid her ear to 
his heart — alow, muffled sound from beneath, stirred 
his breast; he was not yet dead. 

“ Mother,” whispered Hermilio, “all has not been 
done — my brother still breathes — he must not die — 
shall I go for Dr. Baajo? ” 

“ Yes, Hermilio, go quickly, there is a chance. 
They say he employs magic — go Hermilio, go, go — 
and yet, when the highest skill has failed, what can 
we hope from Dr. Baajo? ” said Melegrappia, again 
giving way to despair, as her son withdrew. 

In a few brief words Hermilio made known his 
brother’s condition to Dr. Baajo, who, without a 
word, hastened to the scene where he looked long 
upon the young Chrysoris, stretched, unconscious, 
upon his bed. 

“Dr. Baajo, it is said my brother must die. In 
this terrible accident none of his bones have been 
broken, but from several wounds his blood has 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


13 


poured in torrents ; he is but a pale reflex of the 
living man of yesterday.” 

“ It is then,” said' the Doctor, “ considered^ hope- 
less case? ” 

“ Yes, but I can not believe it.” 

“ There is one thing,” slowly said the Doctor, “an 
experiment” — 

“ Yes, yes, go on.” 

“ But, Hermilio, you might not consent to it.” 

“ Oh, yes,' it affords a chance does it not? ” 

“A chance — yes — but a slender one — and even 
though it prove an apparent success, the results 
may be harmful.” 

“ Waste no words about results — there he lies — 
to your work, and at once, or his death may occur 
while we are hesitating.” 

“I am at your service, then. The experiment I 
shall attempt is called transfusion of blood. My 
old gardener has, to-day, an assistant, a man, young 
and robust — who, for a consideration, may furnish 
us with what we need. He is near at hand. From 
your window you can see him now. Look at him 
well, then say if you wish me to proceed with the 
attempt.” 

“ Yes, yes, call him at once, even now it may be 
too late — let us not lose another instant.” 


14 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


As the door opened to admit the stranger they 
turned again to Chrysoris, paler now than the dead, 
for no purple shadows of lifeless blood relieved the 
transparent whiteness of his face. Exhausted — 
motionless — cold — a mere lingerer on the shores 
of time — a slight flutter of the eyelids alone, 
showed that he was still alive. 

Gonzagi, the man who had agreed to sell his blood 
for money, drew near the prostrate form — in every 
point the opposite to his own. Its motionless 
apathy affected him curiously, with an ill-defined 
feeling of displeasure. His impulse was to fly, 
his judgment said “ stay — to you gold is more 
precious than blood.” And so with mingled feel- 
ings of doubt and eagerness, he awaited the Doctor’s 
instructions. 

When, as a last resort, Dr. Baajo had suggested 
the experiment of transfusion, Pamphilia, alone 
had dissented. From the swart Gonzagi emanated 
an aura, subtile and penetrating — it touched her 
like a palpable thing, troubling and shocking her 
refined nature. She trembled with affright, when 
he was brought to the bedside of Chrysoris and 
shuddering, she quit the room, at the request of the 
Doctor, who saw that she was unnerved, and unfit 
to remain. 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


15 


Dr. Baajo shook his head with a significant move- 
ment, when taking into his own, the limp and 
pulseless hand of Chrysoris. Nevertheless, as he 
skillfully set about his task, he inspired hope. 
He neither heard the mother’s sobs, nor felt the w*oe 
of any, nor mingled with his work that sentimental 
pity, which spares and spoils. His grasp was firm, 
his details precise, his hand steady, his brain 
unclouded. He was at ease in a realm where all his 
knowledge centered. Success, would mean triumph 
— failure, only an incident common, and to be 
expected in every man’s professional career. 

Into the flaccid veins of the dying man he quickly 
transfused the seething blood of Gonzagi, who 
remained silent, with a frown still clouding his dark 
brow. 

The black stream, unaccustomed to the peaceful 
highways traversing the frame of Chrysoris, tore its 
way through with passionate throbs. Between the 
red and angry corpuscles of the bold invader, and 
the feeble remnant within, there ensued a brief but 
decisive war. The stronger, and more vital prin- 
ciple, establishing its reign, the reviving man 
thrilled with a bitter, sweet intoxication. His lips 
quivered with pain ; his trembling lids opened, 
revealing eyes of deepening hue, and his body 


16 


THE BLOOD r IS THE MAN 

became animate. * * * Gazing upon Gonzagi — 
his first words were: 

“What is that ? Is it my soul or my body ? ” 

“Neither” — replied the Doctor — “It is only one 
who has served s you well ; through him your life has 
been saved.” 

“No, no— I am the spirit — that is my body. It is 
all so familiar — yet, this cannot be death. No — he 
is my double — he is the image of myself — he 
reproaches me with sombre glances, but speaks not, 
he grows pale, and seems to fade away.” 

Even as he spoke, ?Gonzagi passed from the room, 
a silent figure, from whom all energy had departed. 
The glow of life no more irradiated him ; he drooped 
as one perplexed and ashamed, and the glance of his 
eyes was earthward. * * * 

There was a time of adjustment and reconstruc- 
tion, — and behold !« this man no longer thought as 
Chrysoris had thought — no longer saw or felt as 
Chrysoris had seen and felt. With the mysterious 
birth of new feelings, new desires, new hopes, was 
opened to him a world unimagined heretofore. 
“ Were they his own — those visions weird, uncouth, 
blent and broken, as things seen in dread night- 
mares ? ” All his former life spread out far behind 
him, like a fading dream — undefined, but entranc- 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 17 

ing — yet, so unreal seemed this dream that, at 
times, he questioned it. 

Nature striving to heal, yet, delayed by an under- 
current of opposition, at length asserted her 
supremacy, and Chrysoris gradually gained 
strength. The haunting memory, which, in the 
beginning tormented him, little by little shrank 
away, and became an indistinct reminiscence of 
something, he knew not what. During his conva- 
lescence, he chafed under a restless desire to get 
out into the world. When a chair was placed for 
him, at the window, that he might see the vast con- 
course of life, in its ceaseless ebb and flow, he begged 
to be taken away, exclaiming, “Oh, I cannot see it.” 

“But” — urged Hermilio — “it may amuse you.” 

“Amuse me ? Great God! man, how is it you are 
here, with these ill-timed suggestions ? What can 
you mean ? No ! — to see men, with strong bodies, 
moving swiftly, to •fulfill their purposes,' while I am 
here, caged like an animal, drives me mad. No — I 
cannot look on ! Close the window. I will go back 
into my heart and there brood, till the day comes 
when I shall be free to go, as others go.” 

Every feature of his face had changed in expres- 
sion ; the serene eyes had cloudy depths — the 
smooth brow had knotted lines— the smiling lips 


18 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


were compressed in grim silence, or gave voice to 
savage words. 

Hermilio saw, with pain, that he no longer filled 
his wonted place in the affections of his brother, and 
to this was added increased anxiety, when he dis- 
covered that the settled frown, the deep absorption, 
the biting words, the abrupt manners, were a part 
of the new man, fitting him, as does the glove the 
hand. 

Chrysoris, the eldest son, and the hope of his 
family, had — earlier than was the custom of his 
country — wedded a young and beautiful woman, 
who moved on his own plane of existence. 

Heretofore, nothing had occurred to mar their 
happiness. No grievous episodes of evil fortune 
had taken them from the tranquil paths of unevent- 
ful lives. Not knowing despair, they knew not 
ecstasy. Unheeding the roar of the world around 
them — peacefully, joyously they moved on, content 
with the simple pleasures, filling their days. 

But now Pamphilia looked into eyes indifferent to 
her beauty ; she appealed to a heart absorbed in 
emotions in which she had no part. When, in the 
breast of hei; husband, her presence no longer awak- 
ened love’s response she felt he was lost to her, and 
when to the bitterness of his coldness, was added 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


19 


neglect, scorn, and cruelty, slie withdrew from his 
home, and passing into solitude, made apothegms 
from the lessons of her experience. The airy 
images, evoked by love’s desire, she named illusions, 
and sorrowfully taking new bearings, she narrowed 
her horizon and the sterile world, then found, she 
stamped as the eternally true. 


CHAPTER III 
The Transformation 


HRYSORIS and Hermilio, had 
been trained in the same 

schools — they had shared the 
pleasures of boyhood, and, 

later, since the death of their 
father, responsibility had brought them more 

intimately together. 

Adoring him — Hermilio took a brotherly pride in 
the personal beauty and fine character of Chrysoris. 
There was no man but honored him for his worth 
— no woman but admired him for his grace and 
sweetness. Now — all changed — withdrawn into 

himself, and wrapped about in melancholy, he slowly 
paced his chamber floor, or moved with rapid strides, 
as though pricked from without by some biting care. 

As they had lived much in the open air, Hermilio 
fancied the monotony of the sick-room had wrought 
upon, and disturbed, the natural disposition of his 
brother, and he resolved to give him the fresh air 
at the earliest moment possible — to place him under 




THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


21 


the influence of new scenes and thus try to divert 
into happier channels, the flow of sombre ideas now 
possessing him. 

With this kindly intention, on a delicious after- 
noon — a soft shower of rain having left only beauty 
and perfume on the earth — the carriage was ordered 
for a drive. 

“Take my arm, Chrysoris. You will fall if you 
make such long, hurried steps.” 

Even the voice had^ost its olden gentleness as he 
replied, “I am in my usual w T alk, and have not the 
smallest idea of falling. I don’t understand why 
you are forever pitching these little nothings at me, 
as if I were a feeble, failing man.” 

“You have been very ill and are not yet well,” 
said Hermilio. 

For a moment, a puzzled, then an anguished 
expression, stole over the face of Chrysoris, and, for 
a time, he spoke no more. His former suavity of 
manner had given place to gloomy silence, at other 
periods, a vulgar craving for action and excitement, 
characterized him. Some energy, new-born and 
fierce, seemed to possess and urge him on. But as 
tremendous physical shocks have been known to 
work entire revolutions in the mental, as well as in 
the bodily character of men, Hermilio — observing 


22 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


and feeling all — prayed for patience, and loved him 
as of yore. 

As they went on, Hermilio strove to interest his 
brother in the grotesque features of the scenes 
which met their eyes. It was useless. Chrysoris 
saw no one person, or thing — he saw the whole. 
His eyes glowed with slumbering heat ; he chafed 
under some restriction which maddened him, and 
at times he clenched his hands in a sort of ecstasy 
of powerlessness. $ 

As they were passing to the north of an obscure 
and neglected quarter of the city, he signified his 
wish to enter a short street, which had caught his 
all-devouring gaze. 

“Perhaps he is developing the artist side of his 
nature, and wishes to see the picturesqueness of pov- 
erty — poverty, that condition of life so warmly and 
heartily recommended to the poor by the rich” — 
mused Hermilio, with a touch of Dr. Baajo’s cyni- 
cism. 

As they passed along the street, Chrysoris looked 
about, here and there, as upon things familiar — 
“That chimney must have been built lately, and 
yonder old gate still hangs on its one hinge — Ah, 
there it is! Stop ! coachman,” — and jumping from 
the carriage, in a moment he disappeared. 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


23 


When Hermilio saw his brother dart through an 
open door, his impulse was to follow him, but, on 
reflection, he decided to wait, at least a while. He 
gazed about, with increasing curiosity, upon his 
surroundings. The street was short and narrow, 
uninviting in aspect and more than ordinarily 
disgusting in its details of sights and odors. Chil- 
dren, in rags and dirt, quarrelled and laughed by 
turns. A mother, slattern, and hollow-eyed from 
toil, sorrow and insufficient food, snatched from 
the street a small atom of humanity who — from his 
size- — one would have thought — was on his first voy- 
age of discovery. 

Hermilio knew that brothers, and even fathers, 
have secrets. He had learned that the patrician, 
from prudential motives, often leaves the highways 
for the modest by-paths of unpretentious vice. 

Chrysoris had, heretofore, taken pride in his 
punctilious propriety. He had never failed in his 
role of gentleman. “All things coarse and ugly are 
sinful, and should be hidden from sight,” he was 
wont to say, and none suspected he had anything to 
hide. If there was aught mean or vile in his nature 
none had seen it — none been made to know or feel 
it. While stoically waiting, Hermilio’s mind was 
engrossed by a vital question — “What, then, was 


24 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


engaging the attention of his brother here, in a 
place so utterly at variance with all his tastes ? ” — 
and becoming impatient, at the end of half an hour, 
he looked inside the door. 

Then entering the small, rather dark hall, he saw 
farther on a pair of narrow stairs. Just at his left 
was the open door of a now empty room, which he 
perceived must be that of a shoemaker. There was 
all sorts of rubbish — old shoes, big and little and 
in all stages of abuse; the boy’s boot open to the 
weather ; the half-grown girl’s, run down at the heel ; 
the old man’s slipper, broad and past all vanity ; 
pieces of leather and the necessary implements 
for cobbling, and above all arose that odor, so stifling, 
so unmistakable of the inmate’s calling. 

Hermilio stayed but a moment. Finding all below 
quiet and deserted, he concluded that his brother 
must be above. In mounting the stairs he moved 
cautiously, for there was mystery in the air. The 
sounds heard on either side, accentuated the silence 
wrapping this mean abode, which but poorly con- 
firmed his first suspicion of it as a romantic ren- 
dezvous. He reached the uppermost hall ; there 
were two doors in sight. He rapped at the first ; 
there was no response. He rapped at the second ; 
there was no response; then, he gently opened it 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


25 


and looked in ; lie saw a man, whom he thought 
asleep, sitting leaning over a table — his face to the 
door. Hermilio saw that he was young, handsome, 
short in stature, dark and seemingly of foreign birth. 
He saw that the room, while not richly, was still well 
' furnished. Around about, on the walls, was a 
collection of fire-arms and daggers of all shapes and 
from every country. He saw, farther on, a window 
that evidently opened upon a roof above a temporary 
kitchen or outhouse. He softly closed the door and 
quietly opened the first at which he had rapped. 
The room was empty. 

He ran down stairs and taking his stand in front 
of the house, patiently watched it for another half 
hour, then leaping into his carriage he drove rap- 
idly home, agitated by various and conflicting 
thoughts : What had become of ClirysoHs ? What 
should he say to his mother ? 


CHAPTER IV 


Gonzagi, Victim of the Experiment, Accuses Dr. Baajo 
of Having Stolen His Soul 

ITH a mind in bondage to the 
false, the untenable, the unpop- 
ular, Dr. Baajo was considered 
dangerous, and a man to be 
avoided. Yet, in his profession, he was much sought 
by certain persons, who — finding neither comfort 
nor relief in approved modes of ministration to their 
ills — turned, with hope and superstitious awe to 
revolutionary methods. Accustomed to the doubtful 
returns, frdm assurances made by those moving in 
more respectable medical circles, they hailed inno- 
vation as, possibly, something upon which to rely. 
Dr. Baajo’s rather commonplace custom of accus- 
ing himself of being moved by selfish aims, and 
heartless motives, captivated ears, wearied by the 
pretentious claims to disinterestedness and altruism 
indulged in by finer people; besides, he carried the 
prestige of having made miraculous cures, hence 
had a large following. Every day his rooms were 



THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


27 


filled with those believing he had made some extra- 
ordinary discovery in the art of healing. In the 
parlance of the day, he was known as a quack; yet, 
he boasted that he knew but little of disease or 
remedy and was a mere blunderer with externals; 
he declared that the real man, incased in his mail 
of clay, gives glimpses at effects only — that the 
invisible cause of disease, or of health, lies too deep 
to be touched even by the most skillfull and subtle, 
for it abides in the blood, yea, in the spirit of the 
blood, moving as it will. Itself, by turns, it vitiates, 
purifies, enfeebles, revivifies; then, dying, leaves 
behind its useless shell to again reincarnate — 
perhaps! 

His attention being called to the typical doctor in 
fiction, he cynically replied: “ Possibly, a physician 
may be rough on the exterior, scorning civil speech 
and delicate act, and yet he capable of doing good 
in secret; he may have a heart overflowing with 
kindness, and a brain replete with lore; he may 
become a family adviser — a repository of family 
secrets ; he may even make money, hut it does not 
follow that he knows how to heal the sick. No, the 
doctor of fiction is a fiction.” And so he scoffed, 
and killed, and cured — -'but took no doses himself. 
Experience had taught him that a result satisfactory 


28 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


at one period is just tlie reverse at another, therefore, 
he wisely refrained from congratulating himself on 
his apparent success in what he termed his experi- 
mental practice. 

On the afternoon of the day on which Hermilio 
drove forth with his brother, Dr. Baajo made his 
first round through a hospital, to which he had 
recently been appointed inspector. Passing from 
one ward to another, he came upon a man whose 
face seemed familiar. A moment later, he recognized 
Gonzagi, of whom he had neither thought nor heard 
since the day he last saw him, now many weeks in 
the past. 

“ Well, well, my poor fellow, what is the matter 
with you? ” asked the Doctor, startled at the man’s 
changed appearance. 

“I don’t know — something has gone out of me,” 
replied Gonzagi, sadly. 

“ Oh yes, we know that, but the loss of your blood 
did not affect you seriously at the time you parted 
with it.” 

“ Oh, sir, it is not the loss of my blood of which 
I speak ; I lived but for one purpose — one purpose, 
and now I don’t care for it any more,” said Gonzagi. 

“ You look as pale as a ghost. Do you have 
enough to eat here ? ” 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


29 


“ Yes, the best of everything, but it is no use, the 
soul of me is gone, you have taken my soul. Oh, 
oh ! even my dog has forsaken me ! " 

His great eyes, lying in his colorless face, were 
extinct of fire, but the Doctor fancied that deep 
within there yet smouldered a spark which would 
some day again light his countenance. 

“ Nonsense, man — is this the way to get health 
and strength ? to lie here, moan and talk of your 
soul — pooh, you never had a soul and being rid of 
that black blood, you will be saved many a day's 
sickness and misery." 

“ You talk well," said Gonzagi, “ but here I am ; 
I wanted money horribly, horribly ; when I got it, 
I no longer needed it. The one savage desire of my 
life went out with my blood, and now I am nothing — 
nothing." 

The words fell from his lips like sighs from a 
broken heart. 

“ Oh, you are not so badly off as you think ; try 
and sleep to-night — I will leave you some medicine, 
and to-morrow you may see me again." 

The Doctor was aroused to the interest of the case ; 
he questioned the steward and found that Gonzagi 
ate, but that the food taken acted as a foreign sub- 


30 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


stance, producing only weariness and disgust. He 
also interrogated the nurse. 

“ Tell me about Gonzagi, your patient. Has he 
been here long ? ” 

“ It is now,” replied the nurse, “ some weeks since 
he came. He hasn’t any special ailment — simply, 
his vital force ebbs day by day.” 

“ Is he well taken care of? ” 

“ Certainly ! You see, do you not, that all his 
wants are supplied ? ” 

“Yes, yes — but what is it all about ?” 

“His trouble” — learnedly pursued the nurse — “is 
a mental trouble. He gazes at one spot on the floor 
for hours — his mournful eyes never close, day or 
night ; rain or shine, he is, alike, indifferent ; he 
never complains, smiles, or seems to wish to get 
away ; lie shows no interest in anything — he is 
dying of a broken heart.” 

“Oh, bosh ! he talks of his lost soul, and you of 
his broken heart, as though such things were possi- 
ble. Let us find some food he can eat with relish 
and digest with ease, and he will find his soul 
quickly enough and his heart will mend readily. 
Has he no friends or relations who visit him here ? ” 

“None that I have ever seen.” 

“Does he never talk?” 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


31 


“At times he speaks in a disconnected way of 
travels in a far country — of seas, mountains and 
deserts — of hardships endured — but there’s no sense 
in it — he mumbles words as in a dream. He told 
me when he first came that he had committed an 
unpardonable folly, but he failed to mention the 
nature of the folly.” 

“He spoke truly,” — muttered the Doctor under 
his breath as he paced the floor, more disturbed 
than he cared to confess — “and something must be 
done speedily.” 

He arrested his steps and, with eyes downcast, 
turned over in his mind his theories upon the 
nature of blood. “After all” — he asked himself — 
“What is blood ? Has it, then, a head like a tape- 
worm — and have I drawn that head from Gonzagi 
and put it into the body of Chrysoris — and can 
Gonzagi, having lost the mysterious source of 
increase, ever again fill his shrunken veins and 
arteries ? What can be done now ? Must I once 
more resort to transfusion — then again and 
again ? ” 

His fancy ran along an imaginary line of blood- 
less men, one after another calling on him to give 
them back their lost souls. 


32 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


He was recalled to reality by tlie nurse’s voice — 
“Very well, I stand ready to take your orders.” 

“I will leave a prescription to be made up — but 
honestly, I don’t know what to do at present — I will 
go home and study the case, it is a singular one ; 
and to-morrow I will take some decisive step — 
meantime, continue your good care and, if possible, 
report him better to me in the morning.” 

Dr. Baajo took his leave, and went directly to the 
home of Chrysoris, whom he had not seen for some 
days. His professional services being no longer 
required, he had ceased to make stated visits, but 
knew himself to be a welcome guest at any hour. 


CHAPTER V 

The Strange Disappearance of Chrysoris and 
Grief of Melegrappia. 

NCONSCIOUS of the beauties of this 
lovely evening, Melegrappia sat 
pondering over the trying events 
of the last two months, and while 
anxiously wondering why her sons did not return, 
Dr. Baajo was announced. 

He had been at her house so frequently during 
the illness of Chrysoris that she made no more of 
him than of a member of her family. Absorbed, 
she neither observed the cloud on his face nor the 
eager tone of his voice, as he said : 

“I ran in to see my patient. Is he still improv- 
ing?" 

< < Oh, he seems well enough physically — he is out 
driving with Hermilio, and they may return at any 
moment," replied Melegrappia sadly. 

“ Is Chrysoris quite his old self ? " continued the 
Doctor. 

“ No ; he is much changed and in many respects. 
I fear the shock to his nervous system, occasioned 



34 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


by that dreadful accident, has in some way affected 
his whole being — he is no longer the same man.” 

“ Mention some one thing wherein he is changed ? ” 

“ Have you not noticed how swarthy his complex- 
ion has become ? ” 

“ Yes — I have observed it.” 

'■ And his temper is uncertain ; the blood of my 
Chrysoris had always an even, a tranquil flow — 
now he is constantly giving external evidence of the 
emotions that disturb him.” 

“ Go on Melegrappia.” 

“ His stomach has undergone a revolution ; his 
appetite spurns the dishes of his former delight ; 
he revels in peppers and other biting things.” 

“ Go on, what more ? ” 

“ He once loved Pamphilia ; at present he looks 
on her with indifference and appears scarcely to 
know her ; he ’has been so rude that she no longer 
wishes to see him, and I — I am no more to him than 
a common servant — there is no recognition in his 
eyes ; he looks upon me as an object apart from his 
world — not of it — he calls me Melegrappia.” 

“ Is this all ? ” 

“ No ; he is moody and seems trying to adjust 
things in his mind — that mind I fear has gone 
astray.” 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


35 


“ And why have you not told me of this before ? ” 
“ Because, at first, I considered his caprices 
only the fancies of a sick brain, and I hoped 
they would, in time, pass away. I felt it to be a 
matter too delicate to speak of, and one not to be 
broached, even to you.” 

None of this seemed of much importance to the 
Doctor, but before he had time to reply, hurried 
steps were heard in the hall and, a moment later, 
Hermilio entered, distracted in manner and appear- 
ance ; he did not even perceive Dr. Baajo, and said 
in an agitated voice — 

“ Mother, is Chrysoris here ? ” 

“ No, Hermilio.” 

“ Then where can he have gone ? ” 

“ Gone — gone ! What do you mean ? said Mele- 
grappia, starting from her seat, in alarm. 

“ At his wish, we stopped in front of an old house 
in a small street ; he jumped from the carriage, ran 
to the door, opened it and entered. At the end of 
half an hour I sought but did not find him. I 
waited another half-hour, then hastened home, 
hoping to see him with you. Has he not been here?” 

“No, said Melegrappia.” “Where can he be — 
what does it mean ? Perhaps he has at last decided 
to make his peace with Pamphilia. Go quickly, 


36 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


Hermilio, but be prudent. Should you find him 
there, do not intrude — at present his waywardness 
must be indulged.” 

He had not been to see Pamphilia who, offender 
and on ill terms with him, remained calm ; she 
asked no questions of Hermilio, nor evinced so much 
interest as a stranger might have done. 

During the short absence of Hermilio, Dr. Baajo 
decided that on account of the still delicate health 
of his patient, some immediate steps should be taken 
to find him, and when Hermilio entered, he was 
ready to counsel him as to the best methods of 
procedure. 

“Did Chrysoris give you any idea where he was 
going ? ” 

“ None whatever ” — replied Hermilio. — “ The 
place though entirely new to me, seemed familiar to 
him. He spoke of changes that had taken place in 
his absence. Suddenly his face became dark and 
angry-looking ; he promptly ordered the coachman 
to stop, sprang to the ground while the carriage was 
still in motion, and disappeared in the house in 
le3s time than I take in telling it.” 

“ Very well, he is in the city and can be found — 
a man cannot so easily lose himself. Why did you 
not speak to the police in the neighborhood ? ” 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


37 


“ He is so unlike himself of late, I thought it best 
to do everything else before employing the police, 
but now I must do so.” 

“ Certainly, and at once,” — said the Doctor, as he 
turned to say a soothing word to Melegrappia, who 
stood wringing her hands, making foolish speeches, 
and not even seeming to hear when she was told to 
be patient and to keep to the house till their return. 

Gargulius had been a good, a rare husband. Both 
generous and just, he saw perhaps, with an inner 
eye, that to possess, one must bestow ; that value can 
only be received for value given ; that we get in 
happiness precisely what we give for it. 

In return for material benefits by Gargulius con- 
ferred, Melegrappia, as her moiety in building the 
home, gave sons, and, without a word, the account 
between them was satisfactorily balanced. 

Melegrappia had no occasion to criticise the weak 
points of the marriage system in vogue. No menial 
service on the one hand, no cunning arts or dishonest 
smiles on the other were demanded of her in 
exchange for food and raiment, hence all undeveloped 
within her slept that faculty for deceit and finesse, 
called the feminine faculty. Living naturally, her 
self-respect remained intact. She was not only a 
satisfactory wife, but a perfect one. And when Gar- 


38 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


gulius,the envied of men, was laid with his fathers, 
grief for the first time touched her ; but now a 
deeper, more ruthless sorrow was approaching her. 

After making arrangements with two police offi- 
cers to search for the missing man, the Doctor, see- 
ing he could be of no more service to Hermilio, bade 
him good night, and turned towards his home. 

It being a matter of secondary importance to him, 
he laid but little stress upon the temporary absence 
of Chrysoris. He had in contemplation a subject of 
more serious anxiety.' In a dull and decent way, he 
had taken some pleasure in the result of his experi- 
ment. The welfare of Gonzagi had not been con- 
sidered a necessary factor in this result. Now, 
behold ! Gonzagi before him, risen as one from the 
dead, to confront and accuse him. 

He reached his door resolved to think no more 
till events arranged themselves in a more favorable 
light. But — despite his philosophy — despite his 
disgust for human emotion, he awaited the dawn 
with feverish impatience, for the soulless eyes of 
Gonzagi had haunted him through the night. 


CHAPTER VI 

The Police in Search of Chrysoris Come Upon a 
Dead Man With a Knife in His Heart 
and a Letter in His Hand. 

disappearance of Chry- 
soris, though a matter of 
grave importance to Mele- 
grappia, seemed a small 
affair to the police officers 
detailed to find him. 
The fact that a man of 
mature years, without the advice or consent of his 
family had — during the space of several hours 
absented himself from his home did not — in their 
code — constitute even an indiscretion. They prom- 
ised, however, that no time should be lost, and, no 
doubt, they had the wish and the intention of show- 
ing diligence when they began the search, but the 
necessity for beginning had not yet become mani- 
fest to them ; therefore, while Melegrappia and Her- 
milio were waiting in anxious expectation for news, 
they were calmly discussing matters agreeable to 



40 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


their taste and talent. At last, it seemed that if the 
work were to be done before midnight it must be 
commenced at once. They accordingly took hold 
of it seriously. Their bustling enthusiasm con- 
veyed the impression that they lived for duty alone, 
and to see public order properly maintained. 

It was now late. They looked into the street indi- 
cated by Hermilio. The people had gone to bed and 
all was quiet. After speculating upon the probable 
effect of waking up one family after another, the 
whole length of the street, to find some one who had 
seen a carriage standing before a certain house, 
they decided that a wiser and quicker way would be 
to return and secure aid. 

Hermilio was still with Melegrappia. These hours, 
the saddest they had ever known together, dragged 
heavily, and when the door-bell rang they bounded 
from their seats -with feelings of hope and relief, 
but when the two policemen appeared empty-handed, 
Melegrappia sank again to her seat in disappoint- 
ment and Hermilio, gravely anxious, gave his atten- 
tion to what was said. 

They stated that before commencing the search, a 
more definite knowledge of the place seemed neces- 
sary — that Hermilio, being the only person in pos- 
session of that knowledge, must accompany them. 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


41 


Pale, but resolved, Hermilio whispered something 
to his mother and without a word more went with 
them. 

They reached the street and the house ; they 
roused the old shoemaker, who grumblingly unlocked 
the door. Fear and curiosity prompted him to 
swallow his wrath, when he saw who were his mid- 
night visitors. Standing in the moonlight, old, 
wrinkled and with imprecations still issuing from 
his lips, he corresponded in appearance with their 
mental image of the evil one. 

“ Who lives here ? ” demanded one of the men. 

“ I do,” replied the shoemaker. 

“Very well — does any one else lodge in the house?” 

“ Yes ; a man has the rooms above me.” 

“ Is he at home ? ” 

“ I don’t know, but I suppose so. May I ask what 
all this means ? ” 

“ Certainly — a person came here this afternoon ; 
he entered by the front door and disappeared rather 
strangely. Is there an opening in the rear by which 
anyone could leave the house ? ” 

“ Yes, under some circumstances. From my little 
kitchen there leads a door, but when I go out — and 
I was out till late this afternoon — I lock it and take 
the key with me. The shop remains open ; there is 


42 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


nothing in it worth stealing and people sometimes 
leave their orders — so the man did not go out by my 
back door. And Parolio — so far as I have seen — 
never has visitors.” 

“ We must go thoroughly over the whole place 
beginning with the lower floor.” 

“ Certainly — but has this man committed a 
crime ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Then why are you hunting him ? ” 

“ Because his friends fear something has befallen 
him — that is all.” 

“ Very well — go on — search the house, I will come 
with you.” 

Chrysoris was not found below, nor any trace of 
him seen. Then, they mounted the stairs. 

Whatever may be the standard of manners 
amongst the police as a body, it was — on this occa- 
sion — without fault. A rap, not aggressive nor even 
threatening was given — one that might have 
appealed to ears inclined to hospitality. There was 
no response. The patience of official politeness 
wanes under too much provocation, and the door 
was opened. 

The man, seen by Hermilio, in the afternoon, 
still sat, with position unchanged, serenely medita- 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


43 


tive — perchance croning the later theories of a later 
day. No ! The sombre character of the head ; its 
finished immobility ; the subtle silence wrapping 
the form, were eloquent of death. Yes, — he was 
dead ! 

It was with no feigned start that Hermilio beheld 
him for the second time. He looked closely, as if 
to verify a vision ; he saw, beneath the table, a 
black pool that had spread a space, and was now 
cold and solid ; he saw a knife in the breast, and a 
crumpled paper in the right hand, of what was 
once, the living, breathing Parolio — for the shoe- 
maker had recognized the man as his lodger. 

The search was no longer thought of. The 
coroner was hastily sent for ; and all formalities, 
common in such cases, having been observed, pre- 
parations w T ere made to hold an inquest. The paper 
was first taken from the stiffened fingers. It was 
dated from a foreign land, many months since, and 

i 

thes^-were its contents : 

“Parolio, I have sworn, before the Lord God Almighty, and 
before the mother who bore me, that somehow, somewhere, 
sooner or later, I will kill you. You came to my happy home, 
and — under the guise of friendship— broke the peace of that home, 
and left it in ruins. My young sister lies in a dishonored grave, 
and there is nothing that can keep me from your heart. 1 will 
hunt you, from one end of the world to the other, with bleeding 
feet ; if need be, I will starve, I will steal, to compass my end— 


44 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


that end being your death. You may think to escape — never — 
never, and may hell’s deepest agony await the soul that knew 
not pity. Gonzagi.” 

Gonzagi, then, was the assassin. 

The long blade was slowly drawn from where it 
had lain embedded in a human heart ; and Her- 
milio recoiled with horror, as his affrighted gaze 
rested on the familiar shape of a knife that bore on 
its handle his father’s name, and which of late years 
had been in the keeping of Chrysoris. 

The perils of the moment grew. Hermilio longed 
to fly, but could not. The horrible, fascinated and 
held him to the spot. In thought, he drifted from 
improbability to improbability. In one brief day 
he had stepped from peace, where all was open and 
understood, into complications of mystery and crime. 
His dream-lit eyes sought the air. He fancied the 
man’s soul had not yet passed, but lingered round 
about, menacing with ghostly scowl, and ever 
beneath the mad array of images darkening his 
mind, ran, in undertone, this mournful cadence — 
“ Chrysoris ! My brother — Oh! My brother ! ” 

It was suggested that, in all probability, there was 
no such a man as Gonzagi — the letter being merely 
a ruse employed by the real culprit to give himself 
a little time in which to escape. Evidence pointed 
in the direction of Chrysoris as the assassin. His 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


45 


visit to the house and his disappearance were both 
facts on which to base a strong suspicion of his guilt. 
Hermilio, directly connected with the deed, must he 
retained and consider himself under the law’s cus- 
tody till the culprit be found. 

The body of Parolio, taken possession of, as is 
usual under similar circumstances where no friends 
or relatives appear, became of secondary importance. 
The assassin was now the all-engrossing subject of 
attention. The murdered man was poor and mean 
in interest compared with him who slew him. Here 
there was something more than the fascination of 
hunting the savage beast in his native haunt ; here 
was the additional charm of situation, in which one 
man’s cunning was pitted against the combined 
wisdom of the many. What has been, wakes to life, 
no dormant faculties of the soul, nor goads to action 
the genius of man. To-day, to-morrow, what is— 
what may be, honor, emoluments, — these arouse the 
sleeping instincts in the breast of the pursuer,— 
and immediately all the unseen machinery of the 
detective system was put in motion to effect the 
capture of the murderer of Parolio. 


CHAPTER VII 


Dr. Baajo, After a Visit to the Hospital, Goes to 
the Country in Disgust 


HE waking thought of Dr. Baajo, 
was of Gonzagi, and, as early as 
his other duties would permit, 
he repaired to the hospital. His 
first glance told him that, in point of health, Gon- 
zagi had greatly improved. A soft glow was upon 
his skin, and his eyes could, once again, speak. 

“ Well,” — asked the Doctor, taking his hand — 
“ have you found your soul ? ” 

“ No ! but it will return to me.” 

“ Ah ! your mind is, still, somewhat' muddled.” 

“ Perhaps so — I feel at peace, but over that peace 
lies a shadow.” 

“ But what matters peace or war, since you are 
now going to get well.” 

“ Yes — Pm all right. In a few days I shall be 
out of this.” 

“ Well spoken ! do so, and let us hear no more of 
you ” — and, with revived spirits, the Doctor arose 



THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


47 


to take his leave. Searching for his gloves, he drew 
from his pocket the morning paper, folded — and 
still unread by him. He gave it to Gonzagi — per- 
haps as a small expression of gratitude to him for 
being better. Gonzagi opened it mechanically, 
showing only a languid interest. 

The Doctor, noting the changes in Gonzagi’s 
countenance since the day before, found it still 
pinched, but in him, altogether, there was a great 
improvement. 

Suddenly a fierce cry rang through the place. 
Gonzagi's eyes, dilating with horror, were fixed to 
the paper. A deathly pallor crept over his face. 
His head fell on his breast. He had fainted. 

Fortunately, the Doctor was at hand, and Gon- 
zagi was, in time, brought back to his proper 
senses. When he was once more lying at ease, the 
Doctor said to him— “ What made you faint ? ” 

“ Something I saw in the paper.” 

“ What was it ? ” 

“ A man has, been found dead— killed with a 
knife.” 

The Doctor took the paper and read the head 

lines “ Mysterious assassination of Parolio. The 

murderer still at large, etc.” 

“ He was then, doubtless, a particular friend of 


48 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


yours "— added the Doctor—" don't let this trouble 
you too much — death is as easy oneway as another." 

“ Do you really think so ? " — demanded Gonzagi, 
with something like a sneer on his face. 

“ Oh, that depends, I grant, somewhat on the 
point of view, but since he had such ahold on your 
heart, why has he not been here to visit you ? " 

“ I have not seen him for several years ; he may 
not have known I was in the country," replied 
Gonzagi. 

“ A friend of your youth ? " 

“ Yes — a friend of my youth." 

“ It would seem that of late years you have lost 
sight of each other ? " 

“ Yes." 

“ It is frequently like that — our warm young feel- 
ings become the playthings of chance, and time 
chills them." 

“ Time had not chilled my feelings for Parolio. 
From the day we parted even to this moment they 
remain the same." 

“ To me all this is incomprehensible," said the 
Doctor. “ Still these exaggerated states of feelings 
furnish an agreeable study. I trust this tragic 
event will not have a bad effect upon you — I had 
hoped to see you out in a few days." 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


49 


“ Oh, yes, in less time — to-day even — for I must 
see Parolio dead.” 

“ But will that not be too much for you ? ” 

“ No, no — a million times, no — I must see him, I 
tell you. No power on earth shall prevent me from 
seeing him ! ” 

“ Calm yourself, Gonzagi ; no one thinks of pre- 
venting you.” 

“ Besides, Doctor,” resumed Gonzagi more quietly, 
“ I must now go to my mother. I have something 
important to tell her. It will be a sad meeting 
between us.” 

“You are a strange fellow; you faint because 
a common mortal happens to get killed, and you are 
not overjoyed at the prospect of seeing your mother. 
Yes — you are a queer fellow.” 

“ I find you equally queer.” 

“ Oli, very well, Sir ! — good-morning.” 

The Doctor, like most of free lances, was slightly 
sensitive to the return blow and walked away 
briskly as was his wont when irritated. He had had 
enough of the Gonzagi-Chrysoris affair ; and eager 
as he had been, earlier, to see both parties, he now 
felt one of them had been more than sufficient. 
Gonzagi was decidedly cured. Chrysoris was prob- 


50 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


ably at home asleep — and if he was not, what did it 
matter. 

“ I am sick of it. I long for a day or two in the 
country where I can wander in a large garden and 
forget the whole human family with its diseases and 
frailties,” mused the Doctor. He bethought him of 
an invitation from a friend living not far from the 
city and, though sneering at people led by their 
•feelings, there was not to be found a person more 
ready to act on the inspiration of the moment. 
Making his necessary professional visits, he gave his 
address to the housekeeper and was gone, without so 
much as leaving a word for any one. 

Dr. Baajo sunned himself in the garden of his 
friend. His cynicism could now sleep awhile, for no 
ruthless eye was bent upon the purple of his face, 
no artless child was there to ask— “ who did it ? ” — 
nor holy man of God, to rebuke his sinful ways. 
He was free from the vexing presence of man and 
woman. He stood, looking at some struggling trees 
transplanted from a hotter clime. 

“ Transplanting,”, he reflected, “ is attended with 
uncertainty — still, some things have been done 
while the future promises more ” — and for a moment 
he thought of Chrysoris. His friend, a recluse and 
cynic also, now joined him. They bent over the 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 51 

flowers and talked innocently as two girls might 
have done. 

“ Flowers, ” said the Doctor, “to me are beautiful 
mysteries. I don’t know how they are made nor 
shall I ever try to find out.” 

“But,” said his friend, “you must know some- 
thing of their habits and of their seasons for life 
and death.” 

“ No, they are God’s, therefore sacred — yet, once 
seen they abide and become a part of me. No imper- 
tinent curiosity of mine shall attempt to bind them 
in time and space — seek to unveil the mysteries of 
their lives or to penetrate the laws of their unfolding 
lest that feeling,, deeper and dearer than can be any 
satisfaction coming from analytical knowledge, 
depart and leave me all unblest. I am interlinked 
with the chain of being, conscious and unconscious, 
and I grasp the flower’s soul with a subtler instinct 
and make it mine forever.” 

“ Your soul, then, is a garden ? ” 

“Yes,” laughingly responded the Doctor, “but 
let us leave all that and come to the visible world. 
Look at that rose — a fragrant joy to itself — awaken- 
ing in man a responsive joy. It is broken from its 
stem ; each delicate part scrutinized by brutal eyes. 
For what ? That one fool may vaunt him in knowl- 


52 THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 

edge over another. What then? Has he solved 
the riddle ? Not he. No ; for me birds and flowers 
shall remain as though designed for my pleasure 
and happiness.” 

“ Yon know they were not.” 

u I don’t know it ; I only know that these beauti- 
ful creations shall rest forever free from any desecra- 
ting touch of mine.” 

“ The study of mankind,” continued the Doctor 
in a changed voice, “ has been enough.” 

“ You speak as if the results had not been entirely 
satisfactory ? 

“ Results ? who can know anything of results ? 
There are no results.” 

And they still walked, talking of a thousand things, 
and so light became the Doctor’s spirits finally, that 
even when a breathless messenger appeared he felt 
he could in nowise be concerned. But after a note 
was given him, and he had read the following : 

‘ ‘ Dr. Baajo, come to us as soon as possible ! 

“ Hermilio.” 

lie immediately prepared to answer the summons, 
muttering between his teeth, “ What in heaven’s 
name is in store for me now ? Is Clirysoris, that 
breeder of misfortune, again at death’s door ? If so, 
I will never say him nay.” 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


53 


He arrived soon after, and was startled at the com- 
plex state of affairs. An evening bulletin informed 
him that a large reward had been offered for the 
capture of one Gonzagi, and another for one 
Chrysoris, each suspected of the murder of Parolio. 

From Hermilio, who was at home on parole, he 
soon learned such particulars as were known. 

“ In what way can I serve you, Hermilio ? ” said 
the Doctor. 

“ You spoke recently of Gonzagi ; you said he 
was ill at the hospital / 1 

“ Yes, I remember telling you so. I saw him only 
this morning ; he was better, he read of the death 
of Parolio, and seemed strangely moved — he could 
"not possibly have killed him — he has been in the 
hospital for weeks and the attendants can give an 
account of every moment of his time.” 

“ Then he confessed he knew Parolio ? ” 

“ Yes ; he said they had been old friends,. He 
fainted when he read of the assassination, and 
declared he must see the dead body. Gonzagi could 
not have committed the murder. I cannot, con- 
scientiously, give up to justice one whom I believe 
to be innocent.” 

“ No, no ; and still you must see how I hoped it 
might have been Gonzagi. Chrysoris, in his right 


54 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


mind, could not have done it, he had never 
spoken of such a person as Parolio, had never had 
dealings with such a one ; he had no motive for kill- 
ing him. On the other hand, the letter, purporting 
to be from Gonzagi to Parolio, plainly indicates that 
there was enmity between them. And yet a horrible 
thought haunts me ! Why did chance thrust this 
Gonzagi upon us ? Would I had let Clirysoris die, 
for since that fatal day, there has been little else 
than tears and heartaches in my family.” 

“Hermilio, do not let suffering blind you to jus- 
tice. I beg to share the responsibility of this 
mistake, yet I cannot bear it all since you com- 
manded me to proceed with my experiment, even 
after I had warned you of possible consequences.” 

“I alone am to blame,” said Hermilio. “Chry- 
soris was my dying brother, and now he is an out- 
cast — a price set upon his head — and he may be a 
murderer. I have sent for you to care for my 
mother. Should she learn all, I fear it would kill 
her. She mourns, incessantly, the absence of my 
brother. Her mind has woven a thousand phan- 
tasies, and none may equal the reality. I may be 
called away, and I ask you, as my friend, to see her 
sometimes.” 

“Yes, Hermilio, I will do all you ask.” 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


55 


“Chrysoris” — continued Hermilio— “may be taken 
at any moment, and with my dull senses I see no 
way out of this.” 

He spoke in the dry, quiet tone of a hopeless man. 
Emotion was dead. There remained an apathetic 
resignation to fate. 

Dr. Baajo urged Hermilio to seek rest and sleep, 
and thus fortify himself for the coming day. He 
then, late as it was, turned his steps towards the 
hospital. He learned that Gonzagi had left in the 
afternoon, saying he would not return. 

He again made inquiries as to whether Gonzagi, 
during his stay there, had ever gone out on busi- 
ness, or on other affairs. No — he had never, under 
any pretext whatever quit the building for a single 
hour. 

Still, the more the Doctor reflected, the more it 
looked as though Gonzagi might have committed the 
murder — but then, why had Chrysoris absented 
himself in this mysterious way? Perplexed, the 
Doctor sought his home and bed, to sleep — if sleep 
could be wooed. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Gonzagi Leaves the Hospital, and While Making 
a Speech Over The Dead Body of Parolio 
is Arrested for Murder 



IS T was late in the afternoon. The 


full splendor of departing day 
illumined the place wherein 
reposed the body of Parolio. 
— ^ Throughout the last few hours 


hundreds had come to see it. 

It is not often a person is found addressing the 
dulled ears of a corpse, yet here was one. He 
looked intently at the dark, finely-chiselled face 
which, in life, full of beauty and passion, had now 
something celestial in its expression of rapt repose. 

A mocking voice was heard — “ How is it Parolio, 
where is the sparkle of your eye, so quick to charm ? 
Where the bending grace — the seductive smile ? 
Where lies it all, now, Parolio ? And your heart, 
good Parolio, is it in its wonted place — and is this 
all there is of you, my poor Parolio ? ” 

And with that, Gonzagi turned to those nearest 
and in a changed and hissing tone, said — “ A 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


57 


blacker heart never beat ; I could tear him, where 
he lies ; I have been cheated of my revenge — I 
should have killed him.” 

Thereupon, he became as one demented. He 
forgot he was in the midst of those who might con- 
sider cursing the dead a matter of questionable taste. 
He forgot that in the wide universe there -was aught 
save himself alone, bowed under the weight of an 
irreparable wrong. 

Brilliant as had been the search for the murderer 
of Parolio, no one had thought of looking for him 
in the presence of his victim. Yet it was there — 
the attention of the police having been called to his 
strange conduct — that Gonzagi was taken as a com- 
mon brawler — and, a little later — being identified 
as the probable homicide — placed behind the bars 
of a prison cell. 

The paroxysm of rage which had led to his 
exposure having subsided, he was amazed at the 
turn affairs had taken, but seemingly, did not 
particularly regret it. Pie had the superstitious 
notion, common to many, that his ideas of justice 
were God’s ideas, and that a momentary incon- 
venience could in no way interfere with the proper 
adjustment of things. 

He rather rejoiced at having the opportunity of 


58 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


telling how bitterly he hated Parolio — how he had 
pursued him for years — how he had escaped — how 
he had been defrauded of his natural right to take 
his life — and all the other tangled and incoherent 
emotions that wrung his heart. Therefore he went 
quietly, and seemed little concerned about the result. 
He had not speculated upon who the probable slayer 
might have been. It seemed so natural that others, 
like himself, should want to put an end to Parolio, 
that it had not dawned upon his mind that a crime 
had been committed or that anyone could be pun- 
ished. Parolio so well merited the foulest treatment 
that from the height of his outraged feeling, Gonzagi 
had made a standard by which all men should see 
and judge him. 

So soon as it was known that Gonzagi was under 
arrest Dr. Baajo sought him in his cell, and found 
him singularly composed and indifferent to his 
situation. “So, then, you assassinated Parolio ? ” 
said the Doctor. 

“No.” 

“Everything leads to that conclusion.” 

“Nothing leads to it. You know Dr. Baajo I 
could not have done it.” 

“So it appeared to me at first. Had you perpe- 
trated this deed you would have been fully prepared 
for the discovery of the body, which must have been 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


59 


made sooner or later. You fainted when you read 
of it, neither would you have confessed — as you did 
to me — to an acquaintance with the man.” 

“Unhappily for me,” said he, “another more 
fortunate has rid the world of its arch villain.” 

“Gonzagi, if you speak like that you will — how- 
ever innocent you may be — ruin your case.” 

“Oh, I shall speak the truth, lies will never serve 
me if the truth cannot.” 

“There is a middle course. You cannot make 
everybody see this as you see it.” 

“Everyone in my place would have loathed 
Parolio as I did, and do. Men, women — all will 
understand that my natural feeling for Parolio was, 
and is, undying hate. I shall be acquitted, even 
though it is proved that I murdered him.” 

“But when you spoke to me of Parolio you did 
not carry this tone of fierce detestation ?” 

“No — I wished to go away quietly, but now since 
things are as they are let events take their course — 
I have no fear.” 

“You have then employed a lawyer ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“'And you have no uneasiness — no misgivings ? ” 

“None whatever. To wait here till my case is 
called may weary my spirit, but patience is my 
strongest virtue.” 


CHAPTER IX 


Hermilio and the Doctor Speculate Upon Future 
Probabilities 


ERMILIO and Dr. Baajo sat 
through long evenings and 
talked on every phase of the 
still profoundly mysterious mur- 
der, but they reached no conclusion. The Doctor 
once tried to construct a theory of suicide. “It 
could have been” — he said — “Parolio’s despair and 
remorse because of the grievous and irreparable 
wrong he had done an innocent girl — the perpetual 
fear — knowing that Gonzagi was eternally dogging 
his footsteps ; these were enough to drive him to 
suicide.” 

“ But the" knife and the disappearance of Cliry- 
soris,” exclaimed Hermilio. 

“ Yes, there lies the difficulty. No. after all, it 
was not suicide.” 

So, night after night, they went all round, but 
never touched upon an absorbing idea which per- 
manently dwelt with each. 



THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


61 


At last Hermilio said, “ Do you think Gonzagi 
murdered Parolio ? ” 

“ Yes, and no,” replied the Doctor. 

“ Do you believe I did it? ” 

“ No.” 

“ And Chrysoris ? ” 

“ I am more guilty than he, poor fellow, and 
yet, he might have ” 

At this point, Hermilio bent his eyes full upon 
those of the Doctor. Subtle currents emanating 
from the minds of each met, and, interblending, 
their mutual thought became manifest, and they 
could now speak of what hitherto neither had 
dared. 

“ You, then, believe, Dr. Baajo, that such a thing 
could he ?” 

The Doctor replied by asking another question — 
‘•Why does a woman sometimes come to look like a 
man, think like him and act like him, after living 
with him as wife for years and bearing him many 
children ? ” 

“I have never observed such a thing — will you 
explain ? ” 

“It is that this man's blood through his offspring, 
mingling with the blood of the woman, carries with 
it his stronger thoughts, superstitions and religion 


62 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


— and these write their impress — modifying even 
the physical conformation of the face.’' 

“A strange and startling idea” — said Hermilio — 
“then, with each child, the wife is nearer and nearer 
bound to her husband by the ties of consanguinity?” 

“Yes.” 

“And does the law take no note of this ? ” 

“No — It is too stupid to know it, but I know it. 
For this reason the younger children in any large 
family are weak, diseased, and intellectually inca- 
pacitated to struggle with the troubles of life. 
Families should be limited by law to five children. 
Look at me — in mine I am the seventh in number. 
This is the first time, in many years, I have spoken 
of that family. So soon as I was able to think I ran 
away, and left my name behind me.” 

The Doctor looked strangely agitated. The pupils 
of his eyes dilated, his breast swelled with painful 
emotion. He arose and while walking to and fro, 
continued speaking rapidly. 

“This is a worse than heathen age — do you see 
this purple face? That tells the degree of civiliza- 
tion we have reached.” 

Hermilio was alarmed. Although knowing the 
Doctor was called mad, this was the first glimpse at 
his demented side, hut so many things had hap- 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


63 


pened in the last few months, that nothing seemed 
improbable, nor did he assume the judgment to 
know sense from nonsense, so he said, soothingly, — 

“Yes, all this may be true, but are not these 
speculations harmful to us — had we not better try 
to cope with realities, as seen by the many?” 

“Perhaps so — go on then Hermilio” — said the 
Doctor, more quietly. 

“We will, then, come back to Chrysoris. Let us 
suppose that he is eventually found, and it is proved 
that he did thrust the knife into Parolio’s heart; 
both judge and jury would laugh at our theory that 
though guilty, he is innocent.” 

“Yes — but he may not be taken; even now, the 
search is almost abandoned. If the nerve and 
courage were given him to slay, might not have 
been added the cunning, to hide his tracks, beyond 
the possibility of discovery? You, Hermilio, are 
far more likely to be punished for the death of 
Parolio than anyone else.” 

“If my supposition is correct, I alone am guilty 
and will submit to the lot apportioned me.” 

“I am an accomplice,”, — said the Doctor“ — but no 
one will believe it. Look at this simple statement. 
You and I in saving one man have caused the death 
of another. What can be done with us — we can 


64 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


never bring back the life taken, nor make tlie gn ilty 
innocent, nor ourselves as we once were. Can you 
see any design in this monstrous course of events? 
Have we sinned more than others? Are we more 
ignorant than others? I have in my days of intel- 
lectual vain-glory declared that all suffering follows 
ignorance — and does it not? For forty full years I 
have studied the blood — not only its palpable prop- 
erties, but its odor, its temperature, its subtile 
essences and its strange persistency. The fact that it 
holds the potentiality for all good and all ill has, 
in special instances, kept me on the alert for years, 
only, at last to see it blossom in something unex- 
pected, yet fore-ordained. I never loved a woman 
for the reason that when permitted to approach near 
enough, I fell to speculating upon her as a subject; 
I would watch the lambent flame expressed on cheek 
and brow as emotion stirred and warmed her 
blood. I would guess at, and try to classify her 
ancestors — whether, the fire of the air, entering 
through their lungs, had led them forth with sword 
in hand, to deeds of valor, in the open field, or 
whether, with passionless breath, in darkened cham- 
bers — sunk into worlds within themselves — they 
plucked pale flowers of abstraction, odorless but 
immortal. 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


65 


I have said the blood is all; that it moves in a cir- 
cle including all; that it creates thought, and by 
thought, is created. I fancied nothing had escaped 
me, when lo! on a certain day I took a man of whom 
I knew nothing, save that his blood looked strong 
and vital, and forgetting all those finer, more impor- 
tant qualifications, I pumped his deepest, darkest, 
secret into the veins of Chrysoris. This thought- 
lessness is being punished as it deserves. Yes — 
ignorance is the source of all evil. In confessing 
our weaknesses, w'e fancy we are making propitia- 
tory offerings to some power above, thereby securing 
forgiveness for pash errors, and possibly for future 
indulgence. Vain hope! To see our mistakes, is 
not sufficient — to suffer the consequences of our sins 
is not sufficient for our safety. We must go back 
within, and by re-creating the energies of our 
minds, attune them to the harmonious note of the 
great Universal Whole. Then shall we know. Then 
shall we be free. 

Arranging several details for the trial, which was 
now soon to take place, they separated for the night. 

Some being gifted with an insight into the intri- 
cacies of the human mind might have named the 
moment when the real madness of the Doctor started 
to quicken in him, but with us it dates frcim the 


66 THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 

time he commenced to reason on the probable 
course the law would take in respect to the Parolio 
tragedy. He began and ended always in the same 
place. His first thought was a bitter one against 
Gonzagi — Gonzagi was the initial step into dark- 
ness. Association of ideas led him to do injustice, 
but he quickly corrected himself. “Fate put him 
into the garden that, through him, my theory might 
be tested — he is not to blame’’ — he would whisper 
to himself. Having attained this position, taking 
all those concerned in the homicide, he would go 
over each word, each act, but never being able to 
come to an opinion he would return upon himself 
and begin again. 

The days ran into weeks and still no word came 
from Chrysoris. No clew had been neglected ; 
•every device of the detective system had been 
brought into play. In vain ! He had vanished 
as a shadow, and left no trace. He was as a tale 
that is told, and the world had almost ceased to con- 
nect his name with the murder of Parolio. He 
came of a family whose members, heretofore, had 
lived and died honest people, and this, in a measure, 
protected his memory as well as furnished a pre- 
text for permitting Hermilio to remain with Mele- 
grappia. Together, they watched each night for the 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


67 


return of Chrysoris, and when worn with fatigue, 
and finally retiring, they would place a lamp where 
its rays might meet and light his coming. 

Each day Melegrappia became feebler. She was 
slowly dying of a broken heart. Chrysoris had 
been her idol, her pride, her companion during all 
her happy days. The hope of again seeing him 
ceased to exist, and her life was slipping away. Dr. 
Baajo’s visits failed of any effect ; she had become 
as a little child, sweet and irritable by turns ; she 
accepted the care and caresses of Hermilio, hut her 
heart was ever with her first-born. At times, she 
fell into states of wild frenzy, and clothing in words 
the weird fancies thickly crowding her brain, she 
would beg to be gone that she might wander the 
world over in search of her son. 

After each of these attacks she grew visibly 
weaker, and before the beginning of the trial of 
Hermilio and Gonzagi, for the murder of Parolio, 
this sinless, loving woman died ; and gracious tears 
fell from the eyes of Hermilio, for he felt that death 
had come to his house as a blessing. 


CHAPTER X 


Gonzagi Tried for the Murder of Parolio and 
Acquitted 

ONZAGPS sanguine views were not 
shared by his advocate, a man 
whose dull fancy never led him 
beyond the plain facts in sight. 
The point from which his judg- 
ments were made was pivotal, and around it circled 
a constellation of prejudices inherited from ances- 
tors, who had walked in straight and narrow paths. 
Lack of imagination cut him off from all touch 
of sympathy with the feelings or actions of crim- 
inals. His mind, inflexible and limited in its 
notions of right and wrong, — his moral nature 
cramped, colorless and vapid, illy provided him 
with the qualities necessary for acquiring renown 
in the law, therefore, he had never risen to a place 
where he could command patronage. The needs 
of life compelled him to take whatever came his 
way, and that came generally from a class having 
little to pay for services rendered. 

Knowing his attorney’s weakness, Gonzagi’s chief 
hope lay with himself. 



THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


69 


The final day of his trial came. Through its more 
important, as well as petty, incidents and unforeseen 
annoyances, no one bore himself so well as Gon- 
zagi. Under the examination by the opposing 
counsel, he held strictly to what he termed the 
truth. 

“You then hated Parolio? ” — queried the lawyer. 

“Yes.” 

“You had laid your plans ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“You knew where he lived ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“You had watched his house ? ” 

“Yes — I knew it well.” 

“Why did you not do the deed at once ? ” 

“I had been in the city ten days only ; there were 
other things to be done first.” 

“What things ? ” 

“It was necessary that I should earn some 
money.” 

“Why ? ” 

“That I might more quickly quit the country.” 

“You had even planned the manner of your 
escape ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“And this letter, in my hand, did you write it ? ” 


70 THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 

“Yes.” 

“Why ? ” 

“That Parolio might be oh his defense. Also, I 
wished him to know my vengeance was on his track, 
and that from one moment to another he was in dan- 
ger, I wished him to taste death day by day, and hour 
by hour. I wished to make life an agony to him.” 

“Would you have stabbed him in the bac\ ? ” 

“No — we had decided the blow must be in the 
heart.” 

“We — who ? ” 

“My mother and myself.” 

“Yet, you deny having killed Parolio.” 

“I did not kill him. You are aware from the 
testimony that I could not possibly have done so, 
since a man cannot be in two places at one time.” 

The story was all drawn from him. He avowed 
in plain terms that it had been his fixed determina- 
tion to take the life of Parolio ; that it was a 
solemn duty he owed his family ; that the spirits of 
his ancestors cried to him from the past — pointing 
with unerring finger the way he was to take ; he 
had listened for a restraining voice — he had listened 
in vain — and that one regret would overshadow his 
remaining days — the regret that he himself had not 
slain Parolio. 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


71 


The testimony concluded. Gonzagi was asked if 
he had anything to say. 

He arose. Memory with cruel rapidity swept 
him from the home of his youth to the present. 
Under the burden of emotion, he became trans- 
formed. His eyes gleamed as though following the 
dread march of events that had brought him from 
afar, even here, to the bar of justice. With an 
effort, he mastered the rising spectres of the past, 
and said quietly : 

“I have but a word. A man does not parade his 
shame and sorrow to save his own life which, after all, 
is scarce worth living. I am not of your country, but 
feeling is common to the human race, and you will 
all understand me. I come of a people who love and 
honor their mothers and sisters. We make slaves 
of them ourselves, but we permit no man to do 
them wrong. This Parolio, whose dead body now 
corrupts the earth, came like an angel of light. 
There was enchantment in the very air he breathed. 
He lingered with us long, and when he went, my 
young sister, the beautiful child, whose presence 
was a prayer and benediction, drooped and died. 
I did not kill Parolio, but God knows I intended to do 
so. Is there one amongst you who would not feel as 
I have felt ? If you are men, I can trust myself in 


72 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


your hands. You will let me go, so soon as may 
be, that my mother may know the deed is done, 
and that I still live.” 

The note of repression in Gonzagi’s voice while 
speaking, and his complete mastery of himself, 
forced the conclusion that underneath that cold 
exterior lay burning floods of hate, outraged feeling 
and despair. During all the trial, the passionless 
calm of his countenance remained unmoved, save 
when he spoke of his sister’s death : then, stirred 
to his depths, pain for an instant showed its signal 
on lip and brow. 

Gonzagi was acquitted. He walked forth free — 
blameless ! He gave his hand in farewell to Dr. 
Baajo, who had been a valuable witness in his 
behalf and — without joy — without haste or surprise, 
he went away. 


CHAPTER XI 


HERMILIO TRIED AND CONVICTED 


ITH Hermilio’s fair name cal- 
umny had recently made free. 
It based its calculations and 
insinuations upon the well- 
known fact that a large family inheritance w T ould 
become his on the death of Chrysoris, and also upon 
the fact that his character, generally, was open to 
criticism — since he not only tolerated, but liked 
people of doubtful respectability. Hostility against 
him attained such proportions that, finally, it was 
boldly declared that he, more easily than any other, 
could account for the strange disappearance of his 
brother, and the general opinion was that he should 
be compelled to solve the mystery. There remained 
to him, after the acquittal of Gonzagi, but a single 
friend. 

Hermilio prepared for his trial mechanically. He 
secured for his defense a man whose broad nature 
included possibilities of all good, all evil. Through 
him the wrongs of the worthy were sure of redress, 



74 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


and for the criminal he plead from a sympathetic 
standpoint with the criminal. He had rarely lost a 
case, yet he could inspire neither hope nor courage in 
the breast of Hermilio, nor persuade him to make a 
fair presentation of favorable points in the situa- 
tion. The opposing counsel drew the following 
damaging testimony. 

“Did you know Parolio ? ” 

“No.” 

“Had you ever heard of him ? ” 

“No:” 

“Did you ever see him before going to his room 
in company with the police ? ” 

“Yes, once.” 

“Where ? ” 

“In his room.” 

“What was he doing ? ” 

“I thought him asleep, I was absorbed in my own 
affairs and was concerned, chiefly, about my 
brother.” 

“Oh ! I see — where is your brother ? ” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Is he living or dead ? ” 

“I don’t know.” 

“You couldn’t, then, be made to produce him ? ” 
“No.” 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


75 


“Did he know Parolio ? ” 

“I cannot say; he never spoke of him to me.” 
“Still he went to his house ?” 

“Yes, he entered the house where Parolio and 
others lived.” 

“His knife was found in Parolio’s heart ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“How came it there ? ” 

“I do not know.” 

“You mounted the stairs in search of Chrysoris 
but found only Parolio asleep ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“And your brother has never been seen or heard 
of since ? ” 

“No.” 

“Your brother possessed a large fortune, did he 
not ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“And you also ? ” 

“No.” 

“You, then, in case of his death would fall heir to 
a major part of that fortune ? ” 

“Yes.” 

Great drops of water fell from the brow of Her- 
milio as it slowly dawned upon him that, possibly , 


76 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


lie might be proven guilty, not only of Parolio’s 
death but of his brother’s also. 

The prosecution went on with one question after 
another, till it seemed as though the law’s inquisi- 
tion must soon fail from exhaustion. The final 
argument, learned and raised into eloquence by the 
advocate’s personal belief in the innocence of his 
client, was made. It was of no avail. The evi- 
dence,. while not' sufficient to convict Hermilio of 
the murder of Parolio, was amply so to prove him 
guilty of coveting his brother’s fortune. 

By what process of reasoning the jury arrived at 
the conclusion that Hermilio had slain Chrysoris 
or why he should, on that account, be convicted of 
the murder of Parolio is not known, but such 
appeared to be the fact, and he was adjudged 
guilty. 

It had been observed, since the acquittal of Gon- 
zagi, that some singular illness had seized upon Dr. 
Baajo. He no longer attended to professional or 
other duties. Wherever he chanced to be, with 
unvarying step he constantly strode to and fro, 
and was heard to mutter frequently — “Oh, I must — 
I must.” 

He watched the trial of Hermilio closely. Every 
day found him listening attentively, and mumbling 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


77 


to himself at intervals When Hermilio gave 
answers, prejudicial to his case, the Doctor would 
clasp his head in his hands, as though seized by a 
deadly pain. When all was over and there arrived 
a moment when such a thing could be, Dr. Baajo — 
to the amazement of all — walked up to the Judge’s 
stand. 

“I am the murderer of Parolio.” 

No word was spoken, no movement made. 
‘‘Yes — I killed Parolio, and I wish to suffer the 
penalty for my deed. Set free this innocent man. 
Parade no more your want of insight into the reali- 
ties of things. Do you wish to know how I accom- 
plished it ? Shall I explain ? Very well — you 
shall hear, but you will never understand. You 
concede that by transmission, a later generation 
inherits the loves and hates, the affections and feuds 
of a former one. Note well what I say.” 

Here the Doctor glanced proudly around upon 
his auditors— his tall form erect— the purple stain 
on his cheek accentuated by the pallor of his brow 

his countenance aglow with emotion, he looked, 

indeed, what all now thought him. 

“Officers of the law”— said the Judge sternly, 
“take charge of this insane man, and see that he 
is properly cared for.” 


78 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


Hermilio, though having been sentenced, had 
not been removed, nor had restraining hands been 
yet laid upon Dr. Baajo. They turned towards 
each other, their silence being eloquent of recip- 
rocal thought. 

It has been suggested by the hopeful that at some 
future day soul may be able to communicate with 
soul by that, now imperfect, medium the human 
eye. Seeing these two, at this supreme moment of 
their lives, one might have said that that hour had 
already struck. 

“ Dr. Baajo, it was to be — let us submit to the 
inevitable, with dignity.” 

“ Hermilio, in a sphere where the semblance of 
•things is mistaken for the real, there must ever exist 
recurring woe. Happiness,” said the doctor, lifting 
his hand and pointing upward, “ lies beyond !” 

They were then separated, and never, again, did 
fate accord them a meeting. 


CHAPTER XII 

Dr. Baajo Goes Mad and Commits Suicide 

R. BAAJO made no resistance, nor 
even spoke. Experience had shown 
him that to be sane one must keep 
within the lines drawn by the con- 
servatism of society, and that to 
pass beyond a certain point therein 
w^as to invite the ill-will and the 
persecution of the multitude. How- 
ever, it was not from fear of misinterpretation that 
he was silent — simply, he had nothing to say. His 
composure was considered a dangerous phase of the 
malady, and though walking under the escort of two 
guardians of the peace, the least perspicacious of 
observers vrould not have been surprised had ghastly 
deeds been done before he was safely housed and 
under lock and key. It had been predicted long 
since that, sooner or later, the tottering mind of Dr. 
Baajo must' fall. He had despised mankind, thus 
showing the first unfailing symptom of insanity; 
he had set at defiance and laughed at the received 



80 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


opinions of men in regard to religion, morals, and 
polities; he mocked the seemingly good and virtufius 
for their pretensions; the cold bare facts of every 
day life to him had peculiar meanings, and then 
he treated the poor free of charge ; aberrations all, 
springing from a diseased mind, and, moreover, it 
was thought that while there were young men and 
women to be corrupted by new isms, Dr. Baajo, sane 
or insane, should not be permitted his liberty. Still, 
the customary forms must be observed. He could 
not, legitimately, be sent to an asylum, unless by 
virtue of the certified opinions of those pronounced 
by law to be qualified to tell the sane from the insane. 

During the examination, believing the result 
inevitable, Dr. Baajo took the opportunity to prove 
himself unmistakably mad. 

“ My good fellow,” began a wise expert, “ what is 
the general state of your health ? ” 

“ Poor, very poor, indeed,” said the doctor, 
demurely. 

“ What has occasioned it ? ” 

“ This social and religious atmosphere is too pure, 
too rare. My spiritual lungs bleed. I suffer greatly.” 

“ How long have you been affected in this way ? ” 

“ Ever since I have been old enough to think.” 

“You are at war, then, with the existing state of 
things ? ” 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


81 


“ No.” 

“ Then you approve ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ We do not understand you.” 

“ Probably not; but that is of no importance.” 

“ Come, come, impertinence won’t make things 
any easier for you; besides, you may not fare so 
badly as you fancy.” 

“ Fare badly? Going to an insane asylum isn’t 
the worst that could happen to a man; he might be 
compelled to live in this upright, law-sustaining 
community.” 

/‘You are not satisfied with the verdict in the late 
trial ? ” 

“ I have no complaint to make. The innocent 
man who is to suffer for my guilt has occasion to 
find fault, not I.” 

“ True, true; but you see opinions differ, and — ” 

Here, the doctor, becoming impatient, interrupted 
his questioner. 

“ Do anything you like, take me where you will, 
chain me like a dog, but spare me your talk. Of all 
the sounds furnished by this good earth, to me the 
most hopelessly bad is a voice coming out of a human 
thing without soul, brain or blood, and I beg you to 
close your lips from this on.” 


82 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


Duty did not permit the man to follow this advice. 
He continued his questions, and the doctor’s silence 
arguing an increased tendency towards lunacy, the 
necessary papers were drawn up in accordance with 
the showing. 

Dr. Baajo’s dementia, though supposed to be of a 
growing and dangerous kind, was recognized as being 
yet in its incipiency. Therefore, when he asked the 
privilege of taking with him certain things needful 
for his personal convenience and comfort, it was 
granted him. 

He was accompanied to his home by two officers 
of the law, who never for a moment left his side. 
On entering he went directly to a large safe or case, 
which stood at the end of liis room, opposite the 
door, and took therefrom a small box and opened it 
with a key. 

The men, feeling he was safe, seated themselves 
near the door, and were not observing him particu- 
larly, but rather the room itself, which was unique 
in its arrangements, combining beauty and ugliness. 

The Doctor, turning to them, asked permission to 
write a short note before leaving. The request 
granted, he sat down near a large table, in the 
centre of the room, on which were the necessary 
materials for his purpose. Each moment the 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


83 


expression of his eyes grew more vague as though 
approaching, in vision, the border line separating the 
seen from the unseen world. Then, as though just 
realizing the passing of time, he dashed off a few 
lines. 

The pen had barely left his fingers, when, sud- 
denly, he sprang to his full height, then fell, with a 
heavy thud, to the floor where, in agony, he rolled 
from side to side, spasms of pain tearing and con- 
vulsing his body. The white foam broke from his 
lips, but no groan escaped him. Nothing could be 
done. He was dead, even, before assistance could 
reach him. The unerring poison, kept as a sure 
transit from life’s too bitter sorrows, had served 
him well. 

These are the words penned in that brief moment : 

“I now take myself off. I have had enough. Since my 
advent into the world, memory recalls no day free from humil- 
iation or suffering; no day wherein man’s merciless eye let pass 
unobserved my facial defect ; no day wherein I found solution for 
the maddening questions propounded by the cruelty of my lot. 
My mother loved her handsome children ; and I was a reproach 
to my father. I am the creature before whom every other, 
unashamed, has delighted to show the lowest side of his nature 
In view of all this, no man can say I lacked courage, or that I 
refused to play the part assigned me. But now, I have done. For, 
by my wretched bungling with the laws of nature, I have broken 
hearts and covered them with the cold clay of earth. I have made 
outcasts of men, innocent and good. And I will no longer submit 
to the torture called life. Yet— alas! one regret — Hermilio, I 
loved — Hermilio, I shall see no more ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII 


Chrysoris Reaches the Home of Gonzagi and Pro- 
claims Himself the Murderer of Parolio 

EFORE a lonely house in a 
distant land, Chrysoris at last 
stayed his faltering steps. 
Emaciated, exhausted, and 
lacking the force to go farther, 
he fell upon the threshold, 
crying with his fainting voice — “ Mother, I have 
killed him — I have killed him.” 

Forth, from an inner chamber, came a woman, 
living — yet, not as one alive. Her dark eyes shone 
with glittering light, and she trembled from head to 
foot. She had been beautiful, and was so still, but 
in another fashion. 

“ Arise, my son, and tell me, once again, that he 
is dead.” 

“ Let me rest awhile — I am ill and weary of life ” 
— he said. 

The woman raised his head in her arms, and 
touched his brow with her lips. For three years 




TI-IE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


85 


she had awaited his coming, and tears fell from her 
burning eyes. 

“ My son — you are not the same. I do not know 
you. Are hate and revenge thus potent to alter 
the lineaments of a human face. Do daily hard- 
ships, and nightly vigils in strange lands, thus, 
transform ? Gonzagi, arise — that I may look upon 
you.” 

Chrysoris heard the name. 0 God 1 that name 
awoke an echo that resounded in the innermost 
chamber of his soul. His mind thrilled and kindled 
with the consciousness of returning memory. <{ Gon- 
zagi ! ” Oh ! at last — at last. 

He lifted his eyes, and made an ineffectual effort 
to raise himself from where he had fallen. Suddenly, 
a gurgling sound was heard, and from his mouth 
poured a stream of blood. It came, with frantic joy, 
as though escaping an odious prison whose walls 
had been hateful to it. And, still, it flowed. Not 
after the manner of its kind but, seeming to possess 
instinct and intention, its dark stream ran like a 
living thing, and glistened before the eye as it sinu- 
ously stole to the floor, where it rested in a dark 
pool with shining surface. Around it — drawing 
away, as though to separate itself— was a paler fluid 
and above it, faint but far-reaching, arose an odor 


86 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


subtle, penetrating, and touching to activity many 
things long dormant in the mind of Chrysoris. 

The distracted woman, in her sanest moments, 
had never contemplated the possible illness or death 
of her son. She staunched the current. She called 
him by all the endearing epithets which love lavishly 
employs. She drew him to her breast. She bade 
him live a while — if only to bless her. 

“ And this ” — she muttered — “ is God’s way ! 0 ! 

that I were God for a day — I would give in to the 
keeping of mothers, forever, their innocent daughters 
and their good sons ” — and she wrung her hands 
and groaned aloud. 

But Chrysoris did not, then, die — he lived many 
days to the confusion and mental disquietude of the 
woman who thought herself his mother. 

His long marches through untold perils of flood 
and field ; his escapes from wild and savage beasts ; 
his sufferings from hunger and thirst, had weakened 
his body, which, through all, had heretofore been 
upborne by superhuman strength, and when this rup- 
ture came to his relief, Chrysoris felt passing from 
him a demon of darkness and destruction, before 
whom he had been driven, powerless. Mutinous 
blood had peopled his brain with dread fancies, and 
terrible resolves. 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


87 


Through him had pulsed streams of living fire, 
carrying him whither they would. And now ! oh, 
now, he was at his journey’s end, himself once more, 
and with a murdered man forever on his conscience. 

He closed his weary eyes, and felt that never again 
could he untangled the web into which, by strange 
fatality, he had become immeshed. 

As yet he knew not why he had slain a man. 
Alien blood had brought no memory with it. He 
had been impelled to his rash act by the blind force 
of a stern resolve, which, without a seeming motive, 
had sprung into active being within him. 

At length sleep stole upon him, and, as he felt 
himself passing into the shadowy world of dreams, 
he prayed that he might never wake again. He 
longed for annihilation. The thought of utter 
extinction was pleasant to him. To let the burden 
of his woes slip gently away and no more be called 
upon to take it up — never more be awakened to the 
aching memory of what had been — this, this, he 
hoped. 

He slept many hours, and when he awoke the 
returning past came to him softly as light. His 
mind was feeble, and he lay a long time without 
thinking. His broken will could no longer concen- 
trate for action, but inclined him to drift with the 
-tide of events. 


88 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


No sooner were liis veins empty of what could 
never rightly there affiliate than he began to mend 
in soul and body. While he lay there all his absented 
faculties came back to him, and he clearly compre- 
hended what had taken place. Gonzagi, the man 
whom, above all others, he remembered; Gonzagi, 
dark and frowning, as he peered into the dying eyes 
of Chrysoris; yes, Gonzagi, was the son of the house 
where now he lay ill, distressed, and in a false posi- 
tion. 

He looked forth into the blear desert, whence he 
had so lately come, not knowing or caring what turn 
life was to take. 

From day to day he deferred any explanation. 
The poor woman never ceased wondering at the 
marked changes she noted in his appearance. Often 
he detected in her grave eyes expressions of doubt 
which never came. to her lips. 

From the window of his room he saw in the gar- 
den a grave, whereon green and beautiful plants 
grew, wonderfully fair and fragrant. There, with 
clasped hands, the mother each evening prayed. 

“ 0 God, in heaven, save my beautiful child. 0 
devil, in hell, hold him forever.” 

Chrysoris had so often heard this prayer that he 
understood, without explanation, the tragedy that 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


89 


had passed. By seeming to know he had learned 
all, and he felt less culpable when he found he had 
been the unconscious instrument of vengeance in 
the hands of fate. 

In a few weeks he was well. Yet he lingered; he 
had become a part of the history of this family, and 
interwoven with much in it that was mysterious and 
painful. The young girl, forced to an untimely 
grave, imbued him with a sad interest. He had 
avenged her; and when he sat by her grave, as he 
often did, guilt fell from him, and he felt her serene 
eyes looking into his soul with pity and sorrow. 

And then, in the twilight hours, again and again, 
to the wondering ears of the sad mother, who never 
wearied of listening, he recounted incidents of the 
fearful voyage he had made. 

Never having left her native home, these words of 
mountain streams and desert wastes were to her as 
tales of enchantment. Sometimes, seeing Chrysoris 
hesitate, she would say, “ Go on, my son. I see all 
you have seen. I feel and hear all you have felt and 

heard. Tell it over again.” 

“ Once, on the banks of a river, whose tortuous 
course crawled like a huge serpent across the land 
to the sea, as I stood gazing far at the gloomy moun- 
tain peaks, raised to soft and mystic heights, a sharp 


90 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


cry of despair rang out and shook my very soul. 
Down the placid stream floated a man on a raft; his 
eyes fixed in terror on a bubble, which, from the 
depths below, had risen, fatal precursor of the swirl 
that awaited him. The frail bark, drifting within 
the enlarging circle, spun round with dizzy and ever 
increasing speed, and, with each revolution it neared 
the centre, which was hollowed like a cone. A 
moment more, one end of the raft stood straight in 
the air; the other was sucked into the opening, now 
grown deep and wide, and with its human freight it 
passed from sight, engulfed by the demon that raged 
below.” 

Repeating this, again and again, his mind became 
strangely fascinated, and his memory was loathe to 
quit the spot where, silently sweeping to its close, 
this tragedy had symbolized his own fate. He was 
that man, gliding peacefully down the stream of 
time, when, without a moment’s warning, he was 
caught from his place and tossed mercilessly into the 
swirl of misfortune. Each turn but carried him 
nearer the narrow vortex; and, in this haunting 
vision, his distended eyes ever beheld the dread 
abyss awaiting him. 

In order to draw him from the contemplation of 
his despair, the woman would urge him to recount 
still another story. 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


91 


“ At some distance from the river a heavy cloud, 
resting upon a mountain peak, absorbed my atten- 
tion. Soon was heard a mighty rush ! Down the 
incline came a moving wall of water, many feet high, 
the base toying with the thirsty sands and the brow 
toppling over. The earth trembled as the forefront 
of the torrent rushed past. The frightened waters 
of the river were rent in twain by its surge. The 
cloud-burst snatched me in its fury and swept me for 
miles, beating and bruising me with its angry tor- 
rent, which bore in its embrace huge rocks, uprooted 
trees, and all the things it had dislodged in its 
impetuous course. 

“ I came, back to life under the caressing touch of 
my faithful dog, who, for the first time, had been 
separated from me. He, also, had been taken by the 
swift current, and bdrne I know not where; but, 
whatever the mysterious bond between us, it enabled 
him to find me.” 

After a recital of these tales of suffering and 
anguish, there lingered with Chrysoris an influence, 
penetrating and sombre, of the other man, whose 
instrument he had been. There was something 
weird and unholy in his position. He longed to 
quit the place. He was not ungrateful for the care 
and affection lavished upon him, but his conscience 


92 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


told him he had duties to perform elsewhere. His 
fancy often shadowed forth the possible consequences 
of his crime. 

Who, then, had been punished in his stead ? And 
Melegrappia and Pamphilia, how fared life with 
them ? And how was it with Hermilio, the brother, 
dearer than all ? These questions could not be 
silenced, and, finally, he elected to steal away as 
mysteriously as he had come. 

This green bower of repose, where he had found 
life, and had been restored and fortified, could no 
longer detain him. 

One night, as he saw the woman kneel upon the 
blossoming grave, and lift her thin hands in invoca- 
tion, “ God in heaven, bless my innocent child,” he 
closed his ears that no Word more should reach him, 
and so strode forth to his doofti. 


CHAPTER XIV 

Chrysoris and Gonzagi Meet in the Desert 


T WAS near a well in a great desert 
whose vast expanse stretched away 
towards infinity. The hour was 
noon, and the sun shone, overhead, 
in dazzling splendor, the white 
sands gleaming in the rays like snow-fields in 
winter. The far-off mountains quivered on the 
sight ; the whole landscape, flooded in glory from 
the midday heat, shook with tremulous motion. 

Two men approached from opposite directions. 
Each dragged his weary steps ; each was frenzied 
with hunger and thirst ; but, even thus, they stepped 
back appalled. 

“ Chrysoris ? ” 

“ Gonzagi ? ” 

“ Chrysoris, why are you here ? ” 

“ Gonzagi, I killed Parolio.” 

“ You ? ” demanded Gonzagi. 

“ Yes, and I have told her he is dead.” 

“ And she lives, Chrysoris ? ” 

“ Yes, she still prays upon your sister’s grave.” 



94 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


“ And how did you do all this ? ” 

“ I know not — only that after your blood was in 
my veins I became another man. I was filled with 
feelings of hate and murder. I even saw this 
Parolio — his image had become a part of me ; I was 
with Hermilio ; looking down a small street, I saw 
a house ; I seemed to know it well ; I was led, as by 
a living hand, to the spot ; I opened a door, and 
there, behind a table, sat Parolio — his face towards 
me — and, before he could speak, or rise, or scarcely 
move, I plunged my knife into his heart. I was 
glad. The sound of the gushing blood was music to 
my ears. I was in an ecstasy of happiness, when, 
suddenly, a voice, faint and far, yet deep within my 
soul, thrilled my senses — calling “ My son, my son ! ” 
I stepped out of the window, on a low roof, from 
thence to the ground, all the while rejoicing that 
I had killed him.” 

“ It must have been, at that moment, that some- 
thing heavy lifted from my spirit,” said Gonzagi. 
“ Go on — I wish to hear all.” 

“ I, then, quit the scene. Before I had gone far, a 
gaunt and hungry dog scented me ; he licked my 
hand, and followed me, and we left the city. I 
looked neither to the right nor left ; nor planned, 
nor took thought for the morrow. I was pushed on 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


95 


as by necessity, and always into secret and untrav- 
elled ways. For weeks — and months perchance — 
I sought the mystic voice that ever called. At last I 
found it, and died upon the threshold, or rather you, 
in that supreme, rapturous moment burst from my 
lips and left me, once again, myself. 0 ! that such a 
fearful thing should be — and that I forever more 
must bear its haunting memory,” said Chrysoris. 

“ It is strange how all this could have happened. 
Would I had killed the villain Parolio. He was 
mine to slay. From place to place I had hunted 
him. At last he seemed under my hand. You have 
snatched the only joy earth could have given me. 
0 ! cursed fate that brought me to you.” 

“ You forget that you really murdered Parolio, 
that whatever he may have deserved from you — from 
me he merited not death.” 

“ Yes — but' you have that, that I covet — a memory 
of the man’s final agonies — the music of the knife 
tearing through bone, muscle, and flesh — the last 
look of the eyes, entreating for mercy — these, these 
you have — I, alas, only a remembrance of the pale 
form of my sister who, from untold shame, hid her 
face in the grave. Stand on your metal, man, for 
as these memories sweep over me I feel myself going 
mad.” 


96 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


“ Strike — life holds no joy for me. But no, 
unhappy Gonzagi, yonder lies your work. Go and 
cherish the lonely woman who calls you son, tell her 
that though your hand is innocent of murder — you 
have killed your victim a thousand times, and that 
your sister is doubly avenged. Let peace come to 
your house, and when, in time, your daughters turn 
their innocent faces to the world, tell them to flee 
from the monster, man — that the prayers and curses 
of broken hearted women may cease to vex the air.” 

“ First, tell me how he died; picture it to me in 
living colors, that on summer evenings I may beguile 
my mother’s sad thoughts from the spot where they 
forever dwell. Yes, paint the scene, that I may feel 
it, or I must take your life for his, that I may know 
by substitution the raptures that revenge can give. 
Away, palefaced son of a craven race, that buys blood 
for gold. Away, lest I put my hand to your throat, 
for I feel advancing upon me that unquenchable 
thirst for taking human life, which has been grow- 
ing — growing these many months — aye, since the 
time I placed the mould above my sister’s 'broken 
heart.” 

“ Gonzagi, lay not hand on me. I, also, am a des- 
perate man. You forget I have wrongs greater than 
yours; that yours have been adjusted; that mine can 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


97 


never be; and, of all men on earth, yon shall no more 
insult me.” 

They sprang as though about to close in a fierce 
embrace. Gonzagi’s poignard, aS he snatched it 
from his belt, flashed in the sun; but, ere it fell, 
Chrysoris sank slowly to the earth, his w T eary limbs 
crumbling beneath him. Pie essayed to rise, but his 
body — the worn and shattered instrument of his 
soul — no longer responded to the will; he struggled 
and would have spoken; but — it was not to be. 
Pressing his face to the hot bosom of the desert with 
a long, deep sigh, he yielded up his life. 

Gonzagi, startled from his frenzy by the tragedy 
enacting beneath his eyes, bent in pity above the 
fallen man. He found the vital spark extinct for- 
ever; he stretched the passive form on the warm 
sands; composed the limbs, and covered the face; 
then the fever of his passion being spent, he sat 
down to meditate on all that had been — on all that 
was. 

Long he sat and thought. Finally, the shadows 
of evening fell. With his hands he scooped a shal- 
low grave in the desert sand, and, as he lifted the 
cloth to gaze once again upon Chrysoris, the moon 
looked full down through a rifted cloud, and he saw 
him as one beatified. The earthly form, free from 


98 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


the groping spirit’s tyrannous grasp, resumed again 
its beauteous shape. No lines marred the brow’s 
smooth surface ; no trace of the soul’s turmoil was 
there recorded ; naught, save a pathetic repose, 
which, in the pale splendor of the moon, gave the 
face a seeming halo of glory. 

“ And is it thus nature fulfills her ends ?” ques- 
tioned Gonzagi, who still lingered. 

He placed the body in the grave, and, when all 
was done, he covered it with stones, as a protection 
against the hunger of wild beasts. 

“ I will return,” he thought. 

Then, slowly, he trailed his course towards his 
home. 




CHAPTER XV 


Hermilio and Gonzagi Over the Graves of Their 
Dead 

ERMILIO, the last of his 
race, convicted of the 
murder of Parolio, was 
banished forever from 
his native land. 

He was not reluctant 
to go. He had long 
ceased to take a personal 
interest in existence. Hope and desire of life being 
dead in him, the inexorable forced his spirit to the 
contemplation of those questions old, old as the sun, 
yet all unanswered still. 

Before quitting his country he visited the last 
resting place of Melegrappia. 

“ Poor little mother ! Happily you are at rest,” 
he said, as his eyes fell upon the small grave. And, 
as he stooped to pluck a flower, hot tears fell from 
his parched eyes. “ Sleep well, sweet mother. And 
n0 w — farewell.” 

He turned away, and was soon lost to sight. 



100 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


Many years after, — a lonely wanderer still — Her- 
milio came to a cool and fragrant spot, which, after 
the long stretches of the desert, seemed an earthly 
paradise. At a little distance, an aged woman, with 
stately, pious steps, walked to and fro. She stopped 
before two mounds, beautiful as only loved graves 
can be. She lifted her hands to heaven in prayer, 
“ 0 God, in heaven, save my beautiful child. ” 

Hermilio gave his name, and begged an hour’s 
repose beneath the shade. He was led from the 
spot by a dark-browed man, who, more mournful 
than any living thing Hermilio had ever seen, 
pointed to a name on a stone abpve a grave, “ Chry- 
soris.” 

Hermilio had many years mourned his brother, 
as lost to him forever. Many years, he had walked 
alone, without friend or foe, and now, seeing that 
loved name, he turned away overcome with conflict- 
ing emotions, and tears welling from their frozen 
source, moistened the green sod above the grave. 
He asked no questions, but listened, as one in a 
dream, to the voice of Gonzagi, as, in simple words, 
he told of Chrysoris — of all he had done, and felt, 
and suffered ; of how — at last — he had perished on 
the burning desert, from exhaustion and despair — 
he told of his own contrition and repentance. 


THE BLOOD IS THE MAN 


101 


No thoughts of vengeance visited the heart of 
Hermilio. Long since, he had ceased to praise or 
blame. He no more said — “ this is good/’ or “ this 
is bad.” He felt such discrimination made by the 
finite mind, to he impertinent and of no avail. 

He and Gonzagi became old and withered men 
together. They would speculate upon the planetary 
worlds, atid their objects of travel through space ; 
they studied inanimate nature — “ but behold ” — 
they said — ■“ thought is powerless before the mighty 
mystery, that guides a human soul, through its 
course on earth.” 

Daily, they visited the graves of their dead. As 
year succeeded year, these, nearly passionless beings, 
laid off one by one, their remaining prejudices and 
quietly loosening their hold upon materiality, the 
spiritual, to them, became manifest. And when 
their last hour struck — without pain, or conscious 
break of continuity, they passed to other forms of 
life. 





























































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